


The Right Thing

by mcicioni



Category: Death Rides a Horse (Da uomo a uomo)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, First Time, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 20:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9512318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/pseuds/mcicioni
Summary: What happens after Bill rides out of El Viento.





	

The wind has abated. Bill rides out of what’s left of El Viento, not sure where he’s headed, not caring one way or another. All he wants is to put as many miles as possible between himself and what he is leaving behind. 

He does not doubt for a minute that killing Cavanaugh, Pedro and One-Eye was the right thing to do. And Walcott is dead too, Ryan’s razor in his heart.

He does not want to think about Ryan.

He crosses the border and heads northeast through the mountains, making a wide detour around Holly Spring and Lyndon City. He only stops when his horse is tired, rests for a few hours when it’s too dark to see ahead. A couple of times he shoots something he can roast on a small fire, without thinking of the other small fire and the other jackrabbit roasting, and Ryan’s voice, quiet, accepting: _because I’ll probably wind up some day with a bullet in my back, and there won’t be a son to avenge me._

Five days’ steady riding, and he can dismount and look. At his house, rebuilt by the community right where the old one burned to the ground. And at the three graves in front of it, looking out towards the hills, towards the green pastures where their few heads of cattle had grazed peacefully, until that night. And then for a moment he sees a man in a black hat and worn brown jacket, standing before those graves, _I haven’t been around here for quite a while._

He’s alone, as he has been for the past fifteen years. He has grown up, brought himself up, in solitude: no friends at school, casual affection mixed with pity from some grown-ups, none of whom ever had the time to talk to him. What he doesn’t have, he doesn’t miss.

In town he’s bought some food, pork belly and potatoes and beans, easy to put together. As he eats, he looks around, the grey walls with rifles and pistols hanging from nails, the rough shelves, the bed covered with old blankets. The only smells are his cooking and a few musty smells drifting around. No reek of burning flesh, no screams, no whistling and hissing of flames. These only come when he tries to sleep, every night. With the spur, the tattoo, the scar, and the earring. And the silver skull on a chain.

In fifteen years, he has never had one night’s uninterrupted sleep. There’s a bottle on a shelf, but he knows from experience that alcohol won’t send the sounds and smells away.

At night, in spite of all that has happened, the walls start burning all over again, around him and the bodies of his family. As he lies on his back, desperately staring at the ceiling, a thought out of nowhere ambushes him, making him sit up, wide-eyed, breathing hard. Yes. He _has_ had a few hours’ uninterrupted sleep. Once. Six nights ago, in an abandoned house, waiting for the enemies to attack them at dawn. While Ryan – _Go to sleep, boy. You’ve got to be well-rested tomorrow_ – snored softly, stretched out on a table, apparently without fear, without memories.

And the following morning Bill woke up to a friendly greeting before the battle, and the novelty of Ryan’s shirtless body: broad, muscular shoulders and chest, wiry dark curls tapering down towards his belly, just the hint of middle-aged spread at the waistline. And the silver skull hanging from the chain.

He stares into the darkness until the first slivers of grey light creep through the blanket tacked to the window. Then he gets up, washes, packs spare shirts and underwear, and what’s left of the pork belly and potatoes, into his saddlebags, stands for a long time before the three white crosses, and rides off the way he has come. Not knowing if he’s doing the right thing, but he just spent a whole night trying to figure out what the right thing was, and then gave up.

He rides west, faster than he did when going the opposite way. One day to the Red Rocks, one day to Holly Spring. There he tries his luck; the saloon has a new owner and a new bartender, and Bill asks the question (“Tall man, pushing fifty, a mustache, rides a dark bay”) but gets nowhere. He buys a bottle of decent whisky and some jerky, and rides on. Two more days to get to Lyndon City. He doesn’t know whom or what he’ll find there – his stomach goes cold as he weighs his chances of ending up with his neck in a noose – but he rides on. Every step of the way, he wonders what the right thing is, but still can’t figure it out. And every night he jerks awake, surrounded by crackling flames, black smoke, and the screams of his mother and sister.

Night is falling when he rides into Lyndon City. The bank is a heap of charred ruins. The sheriff’s office looks empty. He ties his horse to the rail, goes to the hotel, and asks the question. The clerk frowns, then jerks his chin in the direction of the saloon. Bill thanks him and crosses the street, breathing deeply, almost as if he were going towards a gunfight.

Ryan is having a drink with the sheriff, at a table in the middle of the saloon, his back to the door. Careless of him. He’s wearing new clothes, a black coat, a clean grey shirt.

Bill takes half a dozen steps, stops and says, “Ryan.”

A moment goes by, then Ryan slowly turns around. His eyes flash a smile that makes him look ten years younger, then his expression is once again alert, guarded. “Bill.”

“Hello, Grandpa,” Bill says. He pulls up a chair and sits down, not a moment too soon, given the way his legs are shaking.

The sheriff glances at Bill, without seeming to recognise him, then nods to Ryan. “See you tomorrow,” he says, getting up. “You got all night to think it over.”

Bill leans back in his chair and looks Ryan over. “Cozying up to the law. And me thinking that I’d find you swinging from a tree or behind bars by now. With nobody to spring you out.”

Ryan shakes his head, collects a clean glass from the bar and sits down again. “Sorry to disappoint you.” He pushes the glass and the bottle across the table. “The sheriff’s none too bright, but he’s honest, and he suspected Walcott all along. He and the community didn’t exactly mourn him when I brought in his body.” He pauses and looks down at the bowl of his pipe. “And some of the bank money. What the wind didn’t blow all over creation.”

“I thought you would’ve …” Bill stops, uncertain.

Ryan’s lips twitch. “So did I, at first. Then I changed my mind. Decided I’d try being respectable.”

Bill takes a small sip and grimaces, the stuff’s terrible. “And what do you need to think over?”

Ryan speaks around the stem of the pipe that he’s lighting. “You still ask too many questions. You have anything to eat today?” 

Bill shrugs without answering.

“Want something?”

“No,” Bill snaps. “I thought _you_ ’d want to ask a question, for a change.”

Ryan exhales some smoke and looks him over, slowly, and warmth starts growing around the knots in Bill’s stomach and spreading through his body, unexpected, frightening, delicious. “Do I have to?”

Bill shakes his head. “No.” He takes a deep breath. “I came back because I just thought that I’d ride with you a while.” Ryan nods, his rugged features softening, and raises his glass in a silent toast. Bill remembers something: “I’ve got a bottle that’s better than this rotgut.”

A long moment’s silence. “I’ve got a room at the hotel. You’re welcome to share it.”

Bill places both hands on the tabletop, leans forward a little and looks straight at Ryan. “I’m not your son.”

Ryan’s eyes are level, serious, and his voice is low. “I know.” He pauses again. “Your call.”

Bill swallows, nods and stands up. “Let’s go.”

At the door, Ryan waves him in. Bill colours a little, sure that Ryan is remembering the other room, in Holly Spring, where Bill let himself in uninvited. How easily Ryan outwitted and surprised him, and ordered him about, _Hands above your head, boy. Lower the hammer of your gun, slowly. At ease._ How casual he was, and how close their bodies were.

Bill opens his bottle and pours; they clink glasses, “To the future.” “Speaking of which,” Bill says, straddling a chair, “the sheriff’s offered you a job, hasn’t he.”

“Special guard. Mostly stage work, riding shotgun. Guarding the bank, too, once they get it going again.” Ryan stops, considers. “One of the deputies was a pal of Walcott’s. I shot him at El Viento. And I recall the sheriff in your town offering you a job as a deputy. “

Bill shakes his head. “No,” he says bluntly, without explaining.”If the stage company needs another shotgun rider, I just might. I ain’t buying any new clothes, though.” “We’ll see,” Ryan says mildly. Then there’s silence.

Bill breaks it: “There’s another thing.” He lets out a long breath and gets to his feet. “Stand up,” he says, more abruptly that he’d intended; a thrill courses through his body when Ryan complies without batting an eyelid. They’re facing each other, much closer than they were in the square at El Viento. Bill stretches out his arm, his fingers slide into Ryan’s shirt and bring out the silver chain. For a split second, the air goes red around him. Then he’s back in control.

“Lose it.”

Ryan wordlessly slips the chain over his head, cradles it in his cupped hand, and with an easy flick of his wrist sends it flying out of the window. Then he steps in closer, puts both arms on Bill’s shoulders, holding him at arm’s length, and sighs deeply.

“When you rode away from El Viento, I thought …” He stops, brushes the back of a finger on Bill’s cheek, lingers a moment near Bill’s lips. “Ah, forget it.”

Bill stands still, trying not to shiver. He thinks he knows what’s about to happen. He’s not sure if he can remember anything of the little he has learned from the few times he’s been with saloon girls, or if any of that would be suitable to the present circumstances, but he’ll be damned if he lets on.

“Here,” Ryan says calmly, and sits on the bed. Bill looks down at him, uncertain. “Sit,” Ryan orders, voice low and amused as usual, but underneath there is something that makes Bill instantly hard. “Just one lesson, boy. Don’t worry and don’t hurry.” Bill bites his lower lip, every nerve in his body tensing; he must not disgrace himself, the right thing for a man to do is take what’s offered, take his pleasure and remain in control. He can do this.

Ryan waits before touching him, and when he does he takes his time. He touches some places Bill expected and some places Bill didn’t, half-smiling as Bill bucks and curses in frustration; he stops and starts and stops again until Bill is ready to reach for his gun, and then finally lets him explode, endless hot spurts, strong and dizzying and yes, damn it, joyful. When Bill can breathe again, Ryan guides his hands and encourages him to explore and discover, slowly. The hair on his chest, wiry, clean, still dark. His nipples, small and brown, that go stiff at the slightest touch. The middle finger of his right hand, there’a a missing joint, Bill hadn’t noticed it until now, it’s rounded, sensitive. So is Ryan’s sex, solid and throbbing in Bill’s fumbling fingers. Ryan’s eyes are locked into Bill’s, intense, warm, and suddenly he closes them and cries out once and lets go, lost in the fierce pleasure of a long release. Bill shivers: he didn’t think any man could do this, surrender control, make himself vulnerable. It’s scary as hell, but, whatever “right” may be, _this_ is right, right here.

Time passes, their silence is comfortable, Ryan is lying on his back, hands behind his head. Bill props himself on an elbow and looks down. “Hey, Grandpa. Don’t go to sleep just yet. I got something to tell you.”

Ryan makes a small interrogative noise. Bill speaks seriously, firmly: “We’re not blood relatives, but this doesn’t mean that I won’t take care of anyone who puts a bullet in your back.” Ryan frowns for a moment, laughs briefly, then drawls: “When I was in jail, I met a Chinaman. He told me they have a saying: if you save someone’s life, you’re responsible for them forever.” Bill stores the first piece of information at the back of his mind for future reference – there’s so much they don’t yet know about each other; he doesn’t even know Ryan’s first name – and grins, “That goes for both of us. Smart people, the Chinese.”

Later, Bill lies awake in the darkness. Behind him, flames burn fiercely, and the smell of smoke swirls in the air, blending with tobacco, sweat and sex; cries and screams begin to fade, further away, overpowered by soft snoring. Between all that and him there’s Ryan’s body, lying on his side, an arm casually thrown across Bill’s chest, mouth slightly open, eyes peacefully shut.

Bill closes his eyes too, and waits for sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> All my thanks to Darcyone, for ultra-patient beta-reading, and to Linda and Kees, my infallible sources of Americanisms.  
> Rawhide fans may find a tiny tribute to one of the episodes towards the end of the ficlet.


End file.
